Diggin' the Dancing Queen

I was saddened today to hear that six more of our soldiers have been killed in Afghanistan. That said, I was also fairly angry with the BBC for the way that they reported the news. We’re told that the Taliban immediately took responsibility for the attack and that they were "very proud" of their work. We’re meant to think that this makes them animals for having a complete disregard for human life... But this is a war, and people get killed – and people try to kill people. People in New York danced in the streets when Osama Bin Laden died. The English army regularly kills Taliban soldiers and I’m sure they regularly get patted on the back for doing so. Frankly, if I were a Taliban soldier with nothing but an ancient gun to my name, and I'd managed to take out a massive armoured vehicle with a crude improvised bomb, I might be tempted to do a little dance if I considered the people inside to be my enemies. I don’t support the war in Afghanistan. I don’t think it’s achieving anything. I feel terribly sorry that soldiers have to go over there simply to be blown to pieces, but soldiers are trained to kill, and one of the bi-products of war is death.

I'm currently watching a documentary about David Walliams swimming the Thames. He was interviewed at the half-way point by Scott Mills and demanded Dancing Queen by ABBA be played on Radio One. There followed a shot of Walliams dancing like a lunatic around his hotel room whilst listening to the song. The image filled me with great joy!

You know those days when you have hundreds of emails, and just as you think you’ve answered them all, a hundred more come bounding like spaniels into your inbox? Well, today was one of those days, and it wasn’t until Fiona pulled me up on it, that I realised my short, pithy,  factual "I need this, this and this" responses were actually coming across as slightly shirty. It’s amazing how an email can be interpreted in so many ways. I must remember to watch the language I use in future.

The Hattersley films are being broadcast (or TX’d, as we say in telly) up in the North West during the week of 19^th March. I've been asked to go up to Manchester to watch the films being screened in the community centre, and then oversee the first one being broadcast on the telly. It’s very exciting, but also a little worrying to think that they’re going to be split up on five successive nights, which was, in fairness, what I signed up for. I sincerely hope, however, that they’ll make sense out of context on the local evening news and that people won’t think the BBC has gone mad!

Pepys was all over London 350 years ago; first in Westminster, milling around the Parliament buildings and then in Deptford at Trinity House, where Sir William Batten had a terrible coughing fit, which forced him to return home.  Having just got over whooping cough, I know how he feels.

Hermits

Today was all about the EBOR VOX composition, and I’ve written something already which feels very stirring and catchy. It’s slightly different to how I initially thought it might sound, but the words steered me in a particular direction. The sheer madness of 800 people singing in harmony will probably limit the speed that we can take the piece at, but what I’ve written needs to motor along, so I shall revisit it tomorrow with this in mind. If it still seems to work, it’ll be a real bonus, because the sooner I can get going with the arduous process of orchestrating, the better.

I’ve been longing to speak to someone all day. That sounds rather pathetic doesn’t it? It’s also a lie. I’m lonely, because Nathan is working, but when you ensconce yourself in a musical world for 12 hours, it can sometimes become quite difficult to speak when you finally see someone. On a few occasions, I’ve spent the day writing and then gone to a party or a social event. I usually just stand in the corner feeling invisible and slightly irritable. I think if I weren’t also a film-maker, I might have become a hermit by now.

Is it just me, or has Anne Robinson started looking like Velma from Scooby Doo? It’s amazing what a thick-rimmed pair of spectacles can do to a girl’s bonnie visage.

Well, there’s plainly nothing else to say. The requiem emails continue to pile in. I’m going to need to be supremely organised to get everything going smoothly. I’m also increasingly aware that I need to block out some time this year for a proper holiday, probably after the madness of The Space project. New York in October sounds like it might be fun.

I’ve just taken a pause in this blog to have a lovely chat with Fiona in the States. It’s always so lovely to touch base with her and it sounds like Texan life is suiting her well. When it’s 21 degrees every day, what is there to complain about? Tornadoes, I guess.

Friday 7^th March, 1662, and Pepys went to the chapel at Whitehall Palace to hear and watch Robert Creeton, “the great Scotchman” preaching before the Duke and Duchess of York. He preached upon the subject “rule yourself in dust”, which plainly isn’t a subject at all, but he apparently made “a most learned sermon” which was both witty and informative.

Change the world

York is a stunningly beautiful city, isn't it? Maybe I was wandering around today with the eyes of a tourist, but almost every corner I turned seemed to provide me with another pleasing vista. Perhaps because I'd so recently spent time with university friends the whole place seemed to be almost buzzing with forgotten memories. As I walked along Retreat Lane, passing a roll call of floppy-haired students, I suddenly remembered the girl called Ann with teeth like a porcelain sink who used to laugh uncontrollably whilst saying "I'm so depressed." Then, for some reason, I found myself thinking about the thick set German cellist who had such terrible back pains that she was forced to wander around the campus til late at night until she was so physically exhausted all she could do was fall asleep. At one stage these images were running through me like a cine film in the back of my mind. I felt giddy...

It was a very early start. I woke up with my teeth clenched shut yet again and didn't feel quite awake until I
arrived at King's Cross. The man in the buffet car on the way up to York was ineffectual beyond words. I stood for ten minutes whilst he tried to deal with a woman whose only crime was wanting to pay with a card. She was embarrassed. I was embarrassed. He soldiered on. He actually left his post before serving me simply to unpack a box of muffins, which he positioned like a savant on a shelf. "Bear with me," he said, "this will only take five minutes." Five minutes? I only wanted a cup of tea! When he finally served me he asked if I could help him look for his glasses. 

I spent the afternoon at York City Council's offices judging the poems that have been entered into our competition to find a lyric for the Ebor Vox composition. I can't reveal who won but I am excited to set what they wrote to music. It is very clever, very personal and very touching in places.

There were some astonishingly awful entries: one or two of which wouldn't have been out of place on an episode of Countdown. I'm thrilled to announce that someone actually managed to rhyme York with Pork and another poem began "what is York? Is it a village? Is it a town? Is it a suburb?"Um... I kinda thought it was a city!

This evening's event took place at the university. It was a careers guidance do, with all sorts of alumni talking to current students. I felt like a bit of a spare part, although I hope I managed to inspire some kids afterwards. I genuinely think this generation have the potential to change the world - BECAUSE of the recession. They're entering the arts world with no preconceptions and crucially, no expectations. Not expecting to earn money places you in a very powerful position. We're entering an era where 40 people will cram themselves into a fringe venue and put on an astonishing piece of theatre for the hell of it. Feature films get shot on mobile phones and edited on mac books. It's an incredibly exciting time, and these kids need to rip up the rule books and start again. 

350 years ago, Pepys wrote a rather bitty diary entry which flitted from one theme to another. He worked hard in the office. He was troubled by news from his family's estate in Huntingdonshire, which had been badly damaged in the recent storm. His uncle's will was still not fully resolved, a year or more since the old man died. But, his new camelott riding coat had been delivered, so thank heavens for small mercies!

MU rates

What happened to the weather? I thought Spring was on its way, and yet I've been shivering like a lap dog all day. Shivering is about the most interesting thing I’ve done today, however. I had to get up fairly early, despite not having had any form of lie-in for what seems like weeks. I couldn’t sleep last night and got up in the middle of the night to write a load of emails that had been hanging over my head.

I’ve sat at the kitchen table from 9am this morning staring at my computer screen, working on the commission for the Fleet Singers. There’s so much to do and so little time. I’m working around the clock just to get enough of a chunk of it behind me so that I can stop panicking as soon as my head hits the pillow at night and my mind drifts onto the subject.

Every so often I receive an email from someone about the Requiem. Today I’ve been working my way through the business of Musician’s Union rates. It is an absolute mine field. For classical recordings you pay one rate. For pop recordings you pay another. There are bolt ons and add ons. You oay one rate for backing tracks. At one point today I thought I was going to need to pay an extra £4,000 simply because we're making a classical recording. It transpires that, should the work be branded as classical, we might actually SAVE a bit of money, but the amount I was quoted today seemed so low that I’m not sure I can believe it. On and on it goes. Every five minutes I’m pulled into another debate. I go up, I go down. Good news. Bad news. Trust nothing until you've heard it from a variety of sources...

My eyes are so tired that they've started itching. As soon as I’ve written this blog entry I’m going to shut this bleedin’ laptop and try and relax for a few hours before bed.

Wednesday 5^th March, 1662, and Pepys went to a pewterers to buy a poor box to fill with money every time he broke his vows to save money. It’s a warped logic, which surely means you simply end up spending twice the amount, but it's one I fully understand. Pepys returned home to go through his papers, in particular those pertaining to the navy voyage in 1660 when Charles II was brought over from Holland. Pepys ripped up all the unimportant documents, and by the time he’d finished, had filled his closet as “high as his knees.”

A Mancunian double bill

Apologies for the tardiness of this post. Believe it or not, I couldn’t find a single place with wireless technology in Manchester...

03.03.12 (4pm)

I’m on my way to Manchester. I’m officially sick and tired of train journeys. I need to spend a little time nesting at home again. I also need a lie-in. I need a day off. I need to lose weight. I need a massage. I need therapy.

A group of lads on a stag do are in the same carriage as me. They’re being deliberately noisy. They’re coming to Manchester to let their collective tightly-gelled hair down and they don’t care who knows it. They keep pressing some kind of alarm button and they’re doing laddy banter, talking about “fat birds” and “big norks” and all manner of tragic nonsense. When men go on the prowl in a pack they tend to turn into cavemen. One of them keeps shouting “word up”- every 30 seconds. If I was sitting any closer I’d defenestrate him. One is laughing like a little girl – a tiny little girl with special needs. The rest of the laughter sounds really false; like Claudia Winkleman on Film 2012.They’ve started on the cans of beer. I keep hearing the familiar “schhhtuzzz” as another one is opened. By the time they head out on the town tonight, they’ll be rat-arsed and too drunk to pull. They’ll stand outside a pub; one hand holding a pint of beer, one hand in the pocket of their neatly ironed jeans. They’ll feel increasingly angry with the word as their surroundings start to spin. Someone will make a drunken pass at a girl with too much makeup, and not enough clothing and there will be a fight in my hotel whilst I’m trying to sleep.

The girl opposite me is very pretty, but she sounds like Raquel, that used to be on Corrie. I wasn’t aware that people actually spoke like that. Does Sarah Lancashire do any acting these days? She was good.

I’ve been trying to do some work on the train, but the seats are really uncomfortable when you’re not at a table. There’s nowhere to put my legs and the heating is too hot. The carriage smells of cabbages.

The theme of Ellen’s 40^th birthday is black and white. I guess if you’re going to theme a party, it’s good to do something generic like that. I’ve decided to wear shaving foam in my hair. It’s something I saw Philip Sallon doing once, and it looked quite cool, but I’ll probably make it look really stupid. I did joke with Ellen that I might come as my favourite black person. “Who’s your favourite black person?” she said, and I pulled the first comedy name I could think of out of my head, “Robert Mugabe,” I said. She laughed like a drain, “PLEASE come as Robert Mugabe. You’ll make my birthday if you come as Robert Mugabe, with the dodgy glasses and everything.” But I couldn’t bring myself to. He may look like a complete tit, but he’s one of the vilest creatures on this planet.

Very soon the train will pass quite close to Hattersley and I shall wonder how all the people up there are doing. I remembered last night a rather funny encounter with a chap called Maurice, who lives on the estate and is currently trying to write a book about its history. We talked about how unlucky Hattersley had been, and how the outside world tended to perceive it as quite a dangerous place. “Well,” he said, proudly, “here’s a fact. There have actually only been 6 murders on the estate in the 50 years since it was built.” Six murders sounded quite a lot to me, but then a thought occurred to me; “but surely the moors murderers count for most of those?” “Oh” he said, “I counted them as one.” “But what about Harold Shipman?” I said. He laughed. “No one knows how many people he killed, so I haven’t included that business at all!”

350 years ago, Pepys sat down and wrote a strict list of rules for his future spending which he bound himself to “in the presence of God.” Not quite sure how he managed that. In a church? Was God summonsed? I’m sure he was quite disheartened at the news of the day, which was that parliament had decided to tax every chimney in England. Two shillings per year. I wonder how many chimneys Pepys had...

04.03.12

Last night I went to Ellen’s 40^th birthday, which was in a beautiful boutique hotel – a former school house - somewhere near Granada television in Manchester. A group of us met before the event to sing through a special song we’d prepared; a version of I Know Him So Well, with alternative words by Pete, Claire and Jim about Ellen’s colourful and often chequered past.

As promised, I wore shaving foam in my hair. I thought it looked quite cool, like something from Red Dwarf, but everyone at the rehearsal assumed I was part way through the process of dying my hair with some kind of mousse. They probably thought I was vainly trying to get rid of a few grey hairs before seeing a bunch of friends from university whom I hadn’t clapped eyes on in years.  When I appeared at the do with the shaving foam still there, I think people were more perplexed than impressed!

The party took place on the roof terrace of the building. You could see the cobbled streets on the set of Coronation Street from one side. Everyone was given a glass of champagne as we arrived, including a table of old ladies celebrating a 60^th birthday, who’d stumbled up to the roof bar, and were nothing to do with us. I bet they couldn’t believe their luck.

Apart from the old lady imposters, everyone was dressed in black and white, and looked astonishingly glamorous. Some wore tuxes. Nic Harrison wore a beautiful retro dress. Helen’s lipstick looked like a delicate heart painted onto her face. There were mime artists, and silent movie actors, the tallest hats and the most beautifully-tailored suits. Ellen had her hair twisted into a chignon, like some kind of alluring 1960s film star. She looked a picture.

Because Ellen is a writer on Corrie, there were all sorts of actors and directors and telly people floating about. I had a lovely chat with a writer from Shameless who lives a stone’s throw away from Hattersley. His wife was planning to take their daughter to a trampoline class at the Ken Ward sports centre on the estate this morning.

I think I also met Jonathan Harvey, who’s the big cheese at Corrie. He’s the man responsible for writing the seminal film Beautiful Thing. I introduced myself to a Liverpudlian with a friendly face, who I thought was probably Harvey, but he made the classic error of not saying anything but “nice to meet you” when I held out my hand to introduce myself. I plainly couldn’t have asked him what he did for a job, because he assumed I already knew. I think it was him, because I once saw one of his plays at the Hampstead Theatre. The actor Andrew Lincoln told the audience in a Q and A afterwards that he’d based his rather extreme performance on the writer. The man I introduced myself to last night acted a bit like Andrew Lincoln’s character!

There were a few chilling blasts from the past including one girl who I hadn’t seen for 18 years. She stumbled around the party, getting more and more plastered, and every time I came within a few yards, I was forced to dart in the opposite direction because I couldn’t think of anything but really inappropriate things to say to her. When we were students she always seemed a bit edgy. We didn’t have anything to say to each other then, and she still had that same look of torment in her eye; the weird steely glare of a woman trying to control her demons.

But there were some lovely surprises as well. I had a long chat with Pete, a very dear friend from college days, and his beautiful wife, Rachel. The other Pete and the other Rachel both seemed very content as well. I think we can all feel rather proud of the people we became now that the chaotic ash clouds of youth have cleared.

Watching over the proceedings all evening was Ellen’s Dad, who died very suddenly about three weeks ago. His framed photograph sat at the bar all night and we raised a toast to him half way through the evening. His last words, apparently, were “give us another glass of wine” before he fell asleep on his wife’s shoulder and never woke up again.  I can think of no better way to go.

Star of the night was Ellen’s sister, Katie, who delivered an extraordinary speech which was brilliantly prepared, hysterically funny, and deeply touching. There’s plainly a serious stroke of genius running through the Taylor family.

350 years ago, Pepys, Elizabeth and Sir William Penn went walking in Moorfields. It was murky and cold, and they walked for quite some time. On the way home they went to The Pope’s Head to eat “cakes and other fine things.” It sounds like the perfect end to a wintry day. I ate a muffin to celebrate!

Angelberk Thumpletit

...And so we find ourselves lumbered with the foolishly named Engelbert Humperdinck as our entry for the Eurovision Song Contest. I don’t know who he is. I suspect my parents would even consider him to be old-fashioned. He sang that awful song “Please release Me.” He was awful in the 1960s. We’re told he’s from Leicester, although Wikipedia reliably informs me that Arnold George Dorsey was actually born in Madras, India. One wonders why he chose the silly name. I’m not interested enough to actually find out. The whole business is desperately tedious. The British public haven’t had any sort of say in the matter. A group of execs from the BBC with no interest or love for Eurovision obviously sat around a table to brainstorm an artist who might represent us. They started with the big names – all of whom said no – and then they went further and further into the past for “has-been/ never-was” inspiration. The job of writing the song goes to one of the fifteen thousand people who claim to have written “You’re Beautiful” with James Blunt. He’ll obviously not try very hard to write something decent, because he’ll no doubt hate Eurovision and think it would be a waste of a decent song. One wonders also why his CV is pinned on a ditty (which he co-wrote) ten years ago. Has he not had a hit since? Anyway, the result of all this is frighteningly obvious... Humperdinck, botoxed and glowing with fake tan, gets lumbered with an expensive sub-Amy Winehouse number, and Europe, yet again, laughs at us. The ONLY thing you need to know about Eurovision these days is that you’ll only win if you go in it for the right reasons... We haven’t gone in with the right reasons since 1998 - the year after we last won.
 

As a dirty protest to this ghastly news, I squirted toothpaste all over the sink whilst shouting “die Tinkletwat, die!”

Does anyone else share in my dismay that it’s already March?

And what of Pepys 300 years pre-eurovision? Well, he spent the morning chatting to Elizabeth in bed, telling her that they needed to lead a more frugal lifestyle. The incentive? Pepys was currently worth about 500l... but if he were to become worth 2000l, he’d buy a coach and horses, and they could lord it over everyone in London!

A lilac shag pile

I don’t know which was worse on my journey up to Newcastle; the rancid woman with a hangover sitting opposite me, who sighed and sweated and buried her face in the table in a bid for sympathy, or the two ghastly middle-class children who’d obviously been brought up to believe they were not just the centre of their mother’s world, but the centre of every last human in the world’s world. Sometimes I think there’s a lot to be said for allowing children to sit in prams under trees, completely unattended for long periods of time! It’s the best way to teach them that the world fundamentally doesn’t care. You earn respect, you don’t demand it. There’s nothing worse than the whinnying “eha eha eha” of a child who’s only crying to get their own way. Children like the irritating little brats on the train, grow up into rancid ladettes like the sweat-box opposite me, who believes the world should feel sorry for her because she went out on the town last night and got rat-arsed. If you’re going to sweat the stench of white wine, go and sit in someone else’s carriage...

The sun breaking through the mist was a glorious accompaniment to my journey north. As we travelled up through the home-counties, I was treated to some of the most spectacular scenes I’ve ever witnessed. The gently undulating fields, semi-silhouetted, shrouded in mist like a piece of batik held up to a lamp.

I had the mortifying experience of having to do an interview with Radio York whilst sitting on the train. I had offered a pre-record, but they seemed intent on my speaking live. I went to the vestibule of the train, but it was way too loud, so was forced to do the deed in front of everyone in the carriage. Big, confident, excited voice. Mortifying. To make matters worse, the phone predictably cut out about one second into the interview, and by the time they’d called me back, the presenter seemed to be all flustered. I must have spoken for all of ten seconds before things very wisely got wrapped up. Miserable. Thankfully I didn’t swear when I was cut off. At least not out loud. Everyone on the carriage was staring.

A lovely lady at Euston Station got the day off to a really good start this morning by helping me out of a pickle. I’m going back to Manchester on Saturday to celebrate Ellen’s 40^th birthday, and blithely bought myself an advance train ticket some weeks ago, thinking the event would start later than it did. I actually don’t know what was going through my mind when I chose that particular train. Anyway, I thought I’d at least see if I could change the ticket without having to take out a bank loan, and the lovely lady behind the counter went above and beyond the call of duty to, not only change my ticket, but do so for no extra cost whatsoever. Isn’t that just lovely? Thank you, Mrs Lady.

I’ve been in Newcastle all day. It was a balmy spring day; which seems to be my experience every time I visit the city. The crocuses were out on the heath next to the BBC buildings; a thick purple and white shag-pile carpet, wrapped tightly around a line of trees. Helen, who met me from the station, said she’d been studying the crocuses up-close and noticed two single yellow flowers in the sea of lilac. She said she imagined them hatching from their bulbs and thinking; “what’s all this then? Why are we this garish colour? We look ridiculous compared to our mates.” I loved the fact that this thought had occurred to her.

The meeting at the BBC went well. We talked about all sorts of fun things and I played them the Hattersley film, which seemed to go down incredibly well. I noticed a few tears being subtly flicked away by a gentleman who shall remain unnamed...

We went for lunch in a wonderful little cafe in a residential area to the North West of the BBC buiding. It’s apparently considered to be a bit of a dive by Newcastle standards, but I was really taken with it. Rows and rows of clean Victorian houses stretching up and down hills. Intriguing little Indian shops and launderettes. Lots of green space. It reminded me of parts of Crouch End and Hyde Park in Leeds.

I woke up this morning with my teeth locked together; a strong indication that I’m stressed. It’s difficult to know what to do about it, because it’s stress caused by having too much work to do, which is a stress I’d far rather have than the stress of loneliness or the stress of feeling like a failure. The life/ work balance is really complicated, isn’t it? At the moment, in order to live as a composer, I have to take on slightly too many commissions, because I can’t afford to live on the amount I’d be paid if I did a more realistic amount of work.

For those who are interested, Tyne Daley – who it turns out was Lacy off of Cagney and Lacey - was extraordinary as Maria Callas in last night’s show. I can’t recommend it highly enough.

350 years ago, Pepys went to see Romeo and Juliet, the first time it had been staged in London since before the interregnum. He hated the experience. The actors were ill-prepared, and he thought the play itself was pretty rubbish. I love the fact that Pepys doesn’t really rate Shakespeare.